In the Time of the Butterflies

by Julia Alvarez

Any Dominican of a certain generation would have jumped at that gunshot sound.

We carry the traumas of the past encoded in our psyches and bodies, passed down generationally—so the research is increasingly showing us. This is certainly true of the Dominican Republic. The thirty-one-year dictatorship ended, but the sights, sounds, smells, memories stay with us. The generation that came of age during the bloody Trujillo years is especially subject to ghosts from that past. In fact, Dominican historians have labeled it “the lost generation,” not only because of the individuals, leaders, writers, artists who lost their lives, but also those who “escaped” and managed to gain amnesty somewhere “safe” (as my family did) are haunted for years afterwards. I recall when I drove my first (used) car, a bright canary yellow VW, home for a visit. My father’s horrified face shocked me. Later, Mami explained that the SIM (the secret police) always traveled in black VWs—just the sound of its motor would strike terror to your heart. I had expected praise and pride with a purchase I had made with “my own money”! Never mind that my VW was a cheerful sunny color. It still was the same make of the dictatorship’s “deathwagons.” We never leave the past completely behind, but as Eduardo Galeano once remarked, “History never says so long. History says see you later.” Sometimes that past returns in a perky little car tooling down our street with your daughter inside.